"I dated a writer once. I think.... I'd like to date one again." She eased the statement from her lips confidently and seeking of my approval. I only laughed at her. In my head there were many words floating through my very own cloudy writer's mind that I could've said. But all I made audible for her waiting ears to hear was a chuckle. Genuine amusement at the idea of dating a writer. Never, ever, date-a writer.

 Writers.

We are forgetful daydreamers. We are everywhere but where we should be mentally. We won't grant you the gifts of our undivided attention or affection at all times, if ever. We won't show up on time for that meeting you scheduled in front of the gala. If we're blessed enough we will begin to devote ourselves to our stories and work and poems and dialogues and prose and forget that in that moment we had promised to share a sentimental moment of television watching with you just three hours earlier. We won't show that we care often or even show that we care at all, depending. Sometimes we throw around nonsense from our lips and get into arguments with you that you may never let us live down. And we are sorry. Sorry we forget the time. Sorry we showed up late and sorry we wore the wrong shirt.

But before you punch us with the fists of verbal animosity that have grown redder over the months and years of our lack of presence you should remember this: It was the night of a gathering amongst friends. We reached for the same punch bowl and instantly brushed hands causing the punch to bleed red onto the floor. We heard from behind us a swing. The swooshing of air and in the face a party guest was punched. He too began to bleed red. We remember you standing there, also bleeding red. But not the bodily fluid. The emotion. The ectasy. The love. It was all in your face...

 We remember the outfits you wore and how you smelled and how smiled at the jokes we told you-on those dates in which we showed up late because we forgot what time to meet. We remember the anger that rose in your cheekbones and painted you red those nights we seemed distance and off into our work when we were really just writing about how much we loved you.

We don't remember dates or times. We remember colors and temperates and emotions and the little things that would make the picture grey had they not been painted into those moments in the first place. We remember what’s important to the beauty of remembering and we remember what’s essential to recapturing those memories vividly.

So while you sit and remember how angry you were, or inflamed and desired to punch us-we will remember how your palms felt dancing within our own. We will remember the red punch that spilled on the floor, and the man in the corner being punched, and the punching our hearts did within our chest when we first met you. And in that moment everyone in the room was bleeding red. That is what WE will remember.